The Green Fields of France
by nepetation
Summary: Did they beat the drums slowly? Did they play the fife lowly? Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down? Did the band play the last post and chorus? Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest? It was unsettling, this familiar ache he felt for a long dead stranger.


**/AN: A short based on the song The Green Fields of France (uncreative fic title,,, I know), first in a series of song fics for an enjolraire playlist a friend of mine made :D modern era, reincarnation au /**

Enjolras didn't often go for walks. He was much more content to pace the short hallway from the front door of his apartment to the window with the fire escape. Nevertheless, after an hour in bed with no covers but the darkness failed to put him to sleep, a walk was what he took.

He'd been working all night (and would refuse even to himself to admit having downed four coffees), but sleep just wasn't finding him- rather, restlessness was.

Orange sunlight was already climbing into the sky, spilling onto the streets outside. Enjolras frowned in the direction of the rising sun. He'd need a lot more coffee to make it through today, seeing how he wouldn't have much time for sleep.

He couldn't say how long he'd walked for, given that he'd lingered outside the occasional window shop here and there, but he walked long and far enough that his feet were growing tired. He stopped every so often to loosen them up, but soon it became enough that he just needed to stop.

Somehow he found himself in the local cemetery. It wasn't a used cemetery, not anymore. The markers were old, some of them crumbling after decades and centuries of overbearing weather, others clear victims of vandalism.

The one he chose to sit by was of the latter group. It was a simple rectangular piece of stone, crooked in its place and missing a good piece from one corner. The writing was worn, almost lost over the many years since they'd first been engraved.

Through the lichen he could just make out the year 1832, preceeded by a shallow dash. Enjolras couldn't read the birth year. He also couldn't read a first name, but the surname 'Grantaire' was still somehow legible.

"Well, Monsieur Grantaire," there was a brief moment in which he wondered why he felt so sure Grantaire had been a man, "I hope you don't mind my company."

Grantaire, of course, gave no response.

Enjolras sat with his legs bent in front of him, facing the same direction as the gravestone- eastward, toward the rising sun. There wasn't much of it to see, with all the buildings to block the way, but the sky above was coloured with dazzling shades of pink and orange. It reminded him of a painted canvas, all hues and no order.

There was pain of longing in his heart as his mind brought up such paintings, art pieces he was sure his mind was forming on its own as he knew he'd never layed eyes on them. Even so, he felt like he had seen them, and he felt like he missed them. He pushed the feeling down, because how could he miss something he didn't know?

"You've yourself a decent spot, Monsieur Grantaire," he mused, partially to himself, partially to the grave at his side. Talking to a jutting stone felt silly, but there was something comfortable about it, Enjolras thought.

He began to wonder about Grantaire's life. Was he young with eyes starry to the world, or was he elderly, crippled with years of life and fullfilled (neither one seemed right)? Who did he leave behind in his death? Family members? Friends? Anyone he felt more-than-friends with?

Again his heart tugged longingly, this time accompanied by a dull ache set deep in his stomach. He felt like he was missing something. Something important and huge to him. Uneasiness followed close behind this feeling.

Enjolras turned to face the gravestone, long grass twisting beneath him. He looked long and hard at the dull greyness of it, blotched with growth and webbed with cracks across its surface.

He wondered what kind of person Grantaire was. He wondered if they would have gotten along with one another.

"Probably not. But we would have made it work," his own words surprised him. He felt like they weighed with more meaning than was his intent. "I bet you were an asshole. You seem the type."

His finger had started smoothing over the shallow letters of Grantaire's name, a light and ginger touch, a caress beneath his fingertips.

Enjolras pulled his hand back quickly and clamoured to his feet.

This felt weird- familiar in some way. It didn't feel like he was sitting next to the grave of some long-dead stranger, but with someone he knew. Someone he knew very well. Someone he missed dearly.

He didn't like this feeling of recognition he had when he read Grantaire's name. He didn't like the soreness in his heart when he imagined Grantaire dying an untimely death. He didn't like that the word 'gunshots' whispered in his mind.

This was too strange for him. Enjolras had to get out of there.

"Goodbye, Grantaire," he pretended the familiarity by which he refered to the dead man wasn't there. He pretended his throat didn't feel tight.

He left quickly, but not before putting a heavy hand on the gravestone, in some sort of comradery for Grantaire, despite having never known him. Or maybe, despite having never met him, since it did feel like he knew him.

He shook that thought off, but the sadness stuck. Even back at his apartment, he felt a mourning loss, rooted deep inside his soul.

Enjolras never returned to Grantaire's grave.


End file.
